The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  The Black Thorne's Rose

  Susan King

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  This is for David, with love

  Prologue

  England, summer 1207

  Five horsemen rode relentlessly over the moonlit surface of the earthen road, their cloaks billowing like black wings on the wind, their sword hilts and mail armor glimmering. As the riders reached the cavernous mouth of the forest, the fierce pounding rhythm of their approach penetrated the dark silence.

  A young man in a leather hauberk, his long dark hair pluming out behind him, rode at the center of the group. Carried along by the brutal pace, he leaned forward, pulling against the ropes that anchored him to the saddle and bound his hands behind him.

  The riders plunged into the sudden gloom of the forest, hardly slowing at each curve in the road. A canopy of dense foliage obscured the moonlight, hiding the swift forward progress of the others who ran through the trees ahead of the horsemen, unseen and unheard. A man and two children slipped between the oaks that edged the path, pausing to watch as the riders galloped closer. One of them reached out a hand and gestured to the white dog who ran with them.

  Reacting to a whispered command, the dog leaped forward and ran down a wooded slope, an eldritch blur in the milky light. Landing on the path in front of the approaching horses, it growled viciously.

  The leader’s horse shied violently and knocked sidelong into the others. Panicked, the guards strove to restrain their mounts. The prisoner twisted to look around, fighting to keep his precarious seat. Large as a wolf, the white dog continued to prowl the width of the path ahead of them.

  “Destroy that animal,” the leader snapped. Three swords were scraped from their scabbards. The fourth guard aimed a loaded crossbow at the pacing dog. A shrill whistle sounded then from beyond the path, and the dog bounded into a thick hedge just as the quarrel slammed into the earth.

  Unseen behind the jostling cluster of horses, a man hunkered down on foot and moved swiftly toward the prisoner. The keen edge of a dagger glinted in his hand, and with a few quick, precise slashes, he severed the captive’s constraining thongs. Feeling the release, the prisoner spun around, but saw only the quivering of a nearby thicket.

  As the leader of the guards motioned the group forward, the horses moved unevenly along the path, lacking their earlier momentum. With his freed hands still clasped behind him, the prisoner kicked sharply at his horse’s sides. The mount sidestepped nervously, falling behind the others.

  The road narrowed to pass between the jutting roots of two huge oak trees whose branches intertwined overhead. As the men rode beneath the natural arch, the prisoner reached up to grip a low tree limb. Placing his feet on the saddle, he launched upward and disappeared into the dark foliage. Unaware, his guards rode ahead, until one glanced back, yelled, and wheeled, followed by the others. Above their heads, the fugitive slipped still higher into his aerie.

  “That were a hound from the hill, a demon fairy’s beast that appeared to us back there,” one man said as the group slowed to pass again beneath the overhanging oak branches.

  “Aye, or an enchanted wolf,” another agreed. “I vow, this Black Thorne must be in league with forest spirits.”

  “Spirits or no, Lord Whitehawke will have our heads if we lose the Thorne again,” another guard grumbled.

  “Aye, ’tis Whitehawke’s prize,” the captain said, turning in his saddle. “We must find him. Etienne, Richard—search that way.” He gestured into the forest. “Use the crossbows, and shoot high. He’s likely in the trees.”

  Richard snorted. “ ’Tis madness to pursue the Black Thorne into this wood at night. We are far south of our own territory.”

  “Other demons might wait in such a place,” Etienne added.

  “Whining piss-ants,” the captain snapped. “He is here somewhere. Find him.” He cantered away.

  Transparent fingers of moonlight penetrated the deep forest tangle to create eerie shapes. Peering into the shadows from the safety of the path, the guards moved stealthily in different directions, swords and crossbows held ready. Each man made a quick sign of the cross on helmet or hauberk. Soon they rejoined near the forest entrance, circling their horses and arguing.

  High up in the oak tree, Black Thorne began to descend, dropping silently to the forest floor. The base of the oak edged a glade, and Thorne froze his movement there. Across the moonlit circle, the white hound watched him intently, a low growl humming in its powerful throat.

  For an instant he believed that the guards were right after all: this was no common animal, but rather a hound from the hill, one of the white dogs said to accompany fairies. He considered this because an actual fairy—tiny, perfect, formed of golden and silver cobwebs—stood next to the hound.

  She moved forward, across the circle. In a pale cloud around her shoulders, delicate strands of hair glistened and silvered in streams of moonlight. She walked with a slight bounce.

  He blinked, and breathed again. No magical creature, but a child, a young girl. Small for her age, perhaps twelve or thirteen, she was dressed in a long loose tunic and soft wrapped boots. Padding beside her, the dog was as high as her waist.

  Thorne stood slowly, a lean shadow blended with the curve of the old tree. The girl paused and tilted her face to look up at him with frank curiosity, her eyes large and luminous. The white hound growled again, and she rested a hand on its head. “Hold, Cadgil,” she said. “ ’Tis a friend.”

  The dog quieted for a moment, then looked to one side, tensed, and bared its teeth again.

  From beyond the glade, Thorne heard a faint shushing sound. Reaching out, he grasped the girl’s thin shoulder.

  “Into the tree!” he whispered urgently, lifting her onto a lower branch. Light and quick as an elf, she scampered higher. He leaped up after her to crouch on a thick branch.

  The dog continued to pace beneath the tree, and the child leaned down. “Cadgil! Go—find Wat!” she whispered.

  The whistle and thunk of arrows filled the clearing. A branch above Thorne trembled as an arrow burst through the leaves. As the girl cried out softly, he caught hold of her small, outstretched hand and pulled her down beside him to share the wide, stable branch.

  Another barrage of arrows whizzed and exploded through the trees. Thorne covered the top of the girl’s head with one arm; wanting to shield the child from harm, he also needed to hide the pale, bright head from view. Though her small shoulders quivered, she made no sound. A bolt whined through the thick foliage directly over their heads, chunking into wood, spitting leaves onto their heads. They ducked, curled together like a roosting hen with a chick beneath her wing.

  Silence filled the glade. When no new shots came, Thorne raised his head to eye each irregular sha
dow in the glade.

  Below the tree, through the screen of leaves, he saw the shadowy figures of two mounted guards on the forest path. As he held the child tightly, a prayer he had not recited since childhood echoed in his mind. He watched while the guards spoke, then turned their mounts and rode out of the forest.

  Sighing, he tilted his head against the tree trunk in relief, only to straighten when new voices drifted up from the glade.

  “Wat!” the girl called, smiling. She scrambled out of the tree so fast that Thorne, in his mid-twenties, felt like an old man as he clambered down after her. As he reached the ground, he saw the white dog jumping eagerly at the girl. Two other people crossed the glade toward them: a tall blond youth, perhaps fifteen, so like the child that they had to be siblings, and a burly man in a mail vest.

  “Mother of God, ye’re safe!” the man said in hushed tones, touching the girl’s shoulder. Her brother laid a hand on her head and smoothed her hair with silent concern.

  Turning, the man said softly, “We are in your debt.”

  “Nay, I am in yours,” Thorne said. “I would be a prisoner still, but for the hound. Are you the one who cut my bonds?”

  “Aye. My name is Walter of Lyddell. If you be the one they call the Black Thorne, I have a message for you.”

  The outlaw inclined his head in alert anticipation. His dark hair, glossy as ebony in moonlight and worn long in the Saxon style, swung against his bearded cheek. “I am he.”

  Walter nodded, his dark eyes sharp and the set of his wide jaw grim. “Listen now, for your escort may yet return. The Baron de Ashbourne bids me urge you to return north and continue your efforts as before,” he said. “Speak not of this encounter, but know that others are with you against Lord Whitehawke’s cruelty.” He blew out a gusty breath, and looked hard at Thorne. “The guards were likely taking you to the king’s dungeon at Windsor, lad. ’Tis a foul pit where madmen are made.”

  “So I thought as we traveled south. My thanks, then, Walter. Tell the baron that I will honor his trust in me.” He glanced at the girl and her brother. “These children—yours?”

  “Nay, sir. They tagged after me, though I knew it not till too late. I trow they would let no other command their pup.”

  Thorne nodded. “My thanks for what you have done this night,” he said quietly. “I shall not forget it. Before God, I pledge my life to each one of you in payment.”

  Walter placed a hand briefly on Thorne’s shoulder. “We must go. Beyond the glade, sir, that way”—he pointed—“is a horse, saddled and tied to a hazel tree. You will find a bow and quiver there as well.”

  “God keep you, sir,” the girl said. Thorne glanced down at her small, delicate face. Moonlight washed the color of her eyes to silver as she gazed at him with a subtle blend of childish curiosity and mature concern.

  The still air was split by the click of a crossbow quarrel sliding into place. Walter caught the girl’s arm and pulled her away. They dove into the bracken, followed closely by the boy and the dog. Thorne spun quickly to head toward the waiting horse. The shot, when it came, burst into an empty glade.

  Thorne ran, his long muscular frame moving with fluid control. Shouts penetrated the thicket behind him as the guards crashed through the undergrowth. The air was soon thick with the high whine of sailing arrows, cracking into wood and earth and leafy boughs. He raced on untouched, ducking branches and leaping over bracken to reach the horse.

  Yanking the tethered reins loose, he threw himself into the saddle and guided the horse toward a narrow track that sloped down to the path. A bow and a full quiver hung from the saddle, but he did not take time to use them.

  Arrows whipped past, a stinging, vicious hail. One grazed his jaw, nicking it. Another struck hard, penetrating his leather hauberk below the shoulder blade. Reaching behind, he pulled at the shaft as he rode, his teeth clenched in agony, and tore the bolt loose with a brutal yank.

  Hoofbeats thundered behind him, but the destrier was fast and steel-nerved, and Thorne was an excellent rider, unencumbered by the weight of armor. Soon he was well ahead of the guards, heading north along the ancient road. By dawn he had lost his pursuers in a white mist, and took a drover’s track over the mountains.

  Although the arrow had pierced deep into his back, he pressed on for two days, increasingly weak, until he reached the familiar northern moors. There, in the midst of a cluster of standing stones, he fell from his horse and collapsed at the base of an ancient monolith as if it were his headstone.

  Chapter One

  England, April 1215

  A trick of the wind took her last arrow. Released from the bowstring and caught on a breeze, the shaft traced a high arc and flew past its target. As it disappeared into a stand of leafy trees near the forest path, Emlyn de Ashbourne sighed and shouldered her bow. Drawing her green cloak close against the chill, she pulled her hood up to cover her flaxen braids and set off toward the path.

  Several of her practice shots had gone awry today, more from inexperience than tricky breezes. Of the dozen gray-feathered arrows she had taken with her, there were only four left in the leather quiver suspended from her belt. This one would have to be retrieved if she wanted to continue shooting.

  Emlyn moved quickly beneath the thick forest canopy, surrounded by the noisy rustle of leaves in the crisp spring air and dappled sunshine. She was glad that she had taken the risk, slipping away to the greenwood after months of stale confinement.

  In a forest like this one, late last autumn, her brother Guy, baron of Ashbourne, had been arrested by King John’s men. Cautioned by the castle seneschal who feared for their safety, Emlyn and her three young siblings had not gone beyond the walls of Ashbourne Castle all winter. Even now, no one knew where Guy was kept, or whether he remained alive.

  Archery, which her brother Guy had begun to teach her before his capture, had been forgotten until this afternoon. Emlyn had not fared well, her stance and pull stiff, her fingers like wood on the waxed hempen string. Today, with no intention to hunt, she had come here hoping to practice again.

  Not accurate enough with the short lady’s bow to bring down small swift animals or birds—though God knew any game was needed at Ashbourne these days—she nevertheless had been intrigued since childhood by the weapon’s graceful speed and the challenging skill it demanded. Target shooting in the bailey always drew Emlyn to loudly cheer the men as they aimed at bales of hay, and at straw effigies dressed to resemble French soldiers or, lately, King John.

  Glancing around for her lost arrow as she walked, Emlyn neared the forest path, where the dense tree cover began to thin. Startled by a sudden metallic jingling sound, she quickly hid behind a broad oak, her heart pounding.

  “By God’s feet and bones!” The angry oath, spoken in a male voice, carried in the clear air. Emlyn set down her bow and cautiously peered out.

  A few yards away on the path, a man in full chain mail armor sat upon a large black war-horse, angled away from her. The graceful curves of the man’s voluminous blue cloak covered the animal’s hindquarters. From the high saddle cantle hung a white shield with a painted design.

  While the green and white device of a hawk and a branch was unfamiliar to her, Emlyn knew that such a shield, together with the fine horse trappings, could only belong to a knight of rank. He might be a king’s man, she realized. Wat had warned her of just such a danger in the forest. She ducked back out of sight.

  The horse stepped slowly, circling on the path. Emlyn wondered why the knight seemed wary, his sword drawn and held ready. The forest silence was punctuated by the soft footfalls of the horse, the faint jingling of armor, and an occasional burst of curses.

  Alarmed, thinking there might be others nearby, she was anxious to retreat into deeper cover, and took a step back. Underfoot a dry branch snapped loudly.

  Immediately, the knight turned his head and saw her between the trees. He spun the great black stallion and launched forward. “You there! Hold!” he roared.

&n
bsp; Emlyn stopped. He reined in the huge horse a few paces in front of her. She looked up at the destrier’s great dark head, then across the expanse of its powerful chest and shoulders, to the long mail-encased leg of the knight.

  And saw her missing arrow protruding from his thigh.

  She stared at the quivering shaft as it stuck out at an awkward angle from his upper leg. Sticky blood had painted a circle of deep carmine around the imbedded point. Her eyes rose in slow agony to the knight’s face.

  Beneath dark, straight brows, his eyes blazed with the same steely glint of his armor. “Come out of the wood,” he ordered, his deep voice reverberating in the crisp air.

  Emlyn hesitated, her eyes fixed to the arrow. In a panicked haze, she began to consider the enormity of what she had done. Drawing a trembling breath, she stepped toward the horse, her heart racing. The knight towered above her as she stood still.

  He stared at her for a moment, then shoved his sword back into its scabbard. “Maiden, I must remove this bolt from my leg,” he said. “I require your aid.”

  Emlyn looked up in surprise. Closely framed by his chain mail hood, his features were finely shaped, though grim and hard beneath dark stubble. He lifted a brow expectantly.

  She frowned at the arrow. “Sire,” she said in a small, tight voice, “I do not think I can reach it.”

  “My armor is heavy,” he said, his words clipped. “If I dismount I will not easily get up again with an injured leg. Remove the weapon you shall, maiden, and now.” He pointed to a wide tree stump. “Stand over there.”

  Emlyn obeyed silently, wondering as she went if everyone did this man’s bidding with a meekness equal to hers. But then, ’twas true she had just shot him. She stood on the stump and waited as he positioned the animal alongside.

  “Take hold of the arrow,” he directed, and she curled her fingers around the shaft. Removing his gauntlet, he slid his hand beneath hers to press down on his leg. His touch was cool against her skin. “When I say, you shall pull fast and hard.”